the dead are not damned
by sandeul-chan
Summary: when he died, a part of her died with him. — AU, Levi/Petra


**the dead are not damned **(the living are)

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**a/n**: au, levi saves petra from the female titan  
**a/n2**: one day i will write something that isn't angst

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i.

It's been a while, but she is still not used to waking up to silence.

When she moves, the rustling of sheets provides some solace. Silence always drives her mad. She has to move, or speak—or do something—constantly. Letting the silence win is not an option.

She stares at the empty side of her—their—bed. She imagines him rolling over to face her, with that lazy scowl of his. He would chastise her for waking up late, because it's probably six something in the morning and with all that soldier training drilled into her, you'd expect her to wake up at the crack of dawn.

She would laugh—clear and sincere—and look at his face. She would ask him why he was still in bed, then, and he'd narrow his eyes. "Just go back to sleep," he'd grumble pointedly, and close his eyes with knitted brows. And after a while, once he's finally fallen back asleep, she'd fall back asleep too, with the image of his childish sleeping face burning into the back of her head.

She leaves the bed, leaves it unmade and messy. She knows he probably wouldn't like it; would probably glower at her and make the bed himself. But she really can't help it, because she can still see him in the sheets, smell him in the pillows, and it feels like she's breathing in acid.

* * *

ii.

Sometimes she dons her uniform—the little traces of blood are still there—and salutes no one in particular. Legs together, right fist on heart, left arm placed across the bottom of the back; this stance symbolises her loyalty, her determination, her love—

"What are your orders, sir?" she mutters to the white wall. The wall doesn't respond—ever—but she imagines the wings on his green cloak staring back at her. She imagines the wings dancing in the wind as he turns sharply on his heels. He gazes at her with those battle-worn eyes of his, and mouths some unintelligible command.

Then, she blinks. His face melts into the pristine wall, and the wall mocks her foolishness.

She puts away her uniform, folded (trousers on the bottom, shirt in the middle, jacket on top), just the way he used to after a long mission. Then she crawls back into bed, and tries not to dream about him.

* * *

iii.

To all, he died heroically; buying enough time for the rest of the legion to retreat by single-handedly battling fifty, sixty, titans in an open area. This is the story spread by the remaining members of the Scouting Legion. All of them—and the rest to come—will glorify him, eulogise him for his bravery, sacrifice, and contributions to humanity.

She remembers his death differently.

She remembers watching as her comrades fell one by one like little domino pieces. She remembers staring in horror as the titan's leg swung in her direction. She remembers not feeling fear, but regret, because of how little she had done for humanity.

She remembers being violently pushed out of the way, swinging far away from the titan's wrath. She remembers seeing his body pressed against the tree, his blood painting grotesque images on the trunk. She remembers his face, serene and dead and bloody and _dead_.

Her screams shook the entire forest.

No one blames her for it. Erwin gives her as many days off as she needs, Hanji averts her eyes when they're in the same room, and Eren always looks angry, or sorry, or both, because none of them blames her for it.

She's grateful, because she can't face any of them.

As she sits in _his_ chair, with _his_ mug on the table—their table—she sees all of them. All six of them, laughing and chatting and alive. She sees him sitting at the other end of the table, with his feet on the chair, sipping his coffee with that apathetic look on his face.

He says, _Petra, this coffee is shit_. The others snicker. And she says, "Maybe you have shit tastebuds," and he gives her an odd look—a cross between offended and impressed—and she laughs, shaky and strained.

But that isn't true. That's not reality. She could almost hear him telling her to get over it, because anyone who signs up for war is also digging their own grave. She could almost hear him, like a whisper that's much too distant and no matter how hard she tries, she'll never be able to reach it, ever again.

No one blames her, really.

No one but her.


End file.
